Hidden Pictures

  Dear Diary,

  YOU WOULD THINK A TOWN as small as Shady Oaks wouldn’t have too much going on. At least that’s what I thought, before I was sent a mysterious newspaper clipping about the town museum’s newest exhibit. Apparently, one of the museum’s employees has gone missing, only to show up in one of the photographs on display!

  Now I have to know: Who sent me this article and why? Is someone tampering with the exhibit? Or is the explanation a bit more supernatural? According to the article, the photographs are rumored to be cursed. But I’m sure I don’t believe in curses….

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s Raining Suspicion

  “HEY, NANCY!” BESS CALLED TO me from across the street. “This is him, right? The photographer?”

  George and I made our way over to where Bess was standing. She was looking in the front window of an arts and crafts store, where there was a printout of a large black-and-white photograph. The photo was of a serious-looking man with heavy wrinkles, dark hair, and wide, light gray eyes. Or at least they looked gray, since the photograph had no color.

  “Right,” I said. “That’s Christopher DeSantos.”

  We were in the town of Shady Oaks, a drive of several hours from River Heights. It was fall and there were trees everywhere, shading the town with red, orange, and yellow leaves that were covering everything like one large umbrella. Lining the main street were lampposts, and each of them was draped with a banner for the Carlisle Museum and the new exhibit featuring pictures of Shady Oaks by the world-famous photographer Christopher DeSantos. DeSantos had grown up in town and spent his teenage years taking pictures. None of these photographs had ever been seen before. They had all been donated only recently by DeSantos’s granddaughter, who had lived here with her grandfather after his retirement. She had moved to Shady Oaks when she was only a child, over twenty years ago, but she had apparently never left.

  “He looks…,” began George, before eventually finding the right word. “Intimidating.”

  “It’s probably just the photograph,” said Bess. “If the lighting were different and if he was smiling, he wouldn’t look so…”

  “Frightening?” George tried again.

  “Well, yes,” said Bess.

  Bess and George were my best friends, but they couldn’t be more different. That much was clear just by looking at them. It was raining lightly in Shady Oaks and Bess had brought along a pair of polka-dotted rain boots, pulled up carefully over her jeans, and a matching polka-dotted umbrella. Her blond hair was tucked behind her ears and protected entirely from the rain. George, on the other hand, had thrown on an oversize green parka. She had pulled the hood down low over her forehead, but tufts of her dark hair still peeked out from underneath it and were slowly soaking up rainwater.

  Personally, I had opted for something more in the middle. I was wearing my red raincoat, zipped up to protect me from the wind, a warm cable-knit sweater, and a pair of boots.

  “So where to now?” said Bess, turning away from the window. “Should we find the museum?”

  “No way,” said George. “No museums until after breakfast.”

  “I agree,” I said. “We should definitely get some food first.”

  Truthfully, I was eager to find the Carlisle Museum and visit the new Christopher DeSantos exhibit. But we had driven to Shady Oaks and checked into our hotel pretty late last night. No restaurants had been open, and I would have felt bad making my friends wait to eat this morning. Especially since I knew neither of them were very interested in Christopher DeSantos, or even photography in general.

  We continued walking down the main street. Bess was trying to avoid puddles as she went. I was on the lookout for other potential museumgoers. Shady Oaks seemed pretty busy. Despite the rain and the small size of the town, there were actually a good number of people walking around. Many of the stores had window displays advertising the DeSantos exhibit, and most of the pedestrians were stopping to look at each one. I had to assume we were surrounded by tourists and DeSantos fans.

  George had fallen a few steps behind us. She had taken out her cell phone and was holding it up in the air as she looked for service. I could see the droplets of water already collecting on her phone screen.

  “No cell service!” she called to us. She sounded a bit miserable. “And no Wi-Fi at the hotel. Why did we come to such a remote town again?”

  Next to me, Bess rolled her eyes. “George,” she called back. “Nancy is a big fan of Christopher DeSantos! As her friends, we should be happy to tag along so she gets to experience this. Right, Nancy?”

  “Um,” I said. “Right. Thanks, Bess.”

  I knew I wasn’t being very convincing. Especially when Bess turned toward me and looked a little confused. “Nancy,” she said. “You are a DeSantos fan, aren’t you?”

  “Well,” I said. The truth was, I hadn’t even heard of Christopher DeSantos or his photographs until a couple of days ago. There was another reason I wanted to visit Shady Oaks. But before I could explain what we were really doing there, I saw someone walking toward us.

  “Hello!” the person called out. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat, and her intensely red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that flicked behind her as she walked. Around her neck she carried what looked like an old-fashioned film camera, but it was encased in a clear plastic covering, to protect it from the rain. “Are you guys here for the exhibit? Are you huge Christopher DeSantos fans too?”

  “That’s what we were just wondering,” said Bess.

  The girl looked confused, so I quickly held my hand out to her. “Yes,” I said. “We’re all big fans. I’m Nancy, this is Bess, and that’s George, with the cell phone.”

  At the sound of her name, George looked over at us and the new girl. She waved as she walked over to join us.

  “I’m Riley,” said the girl. She smiled, and I could see that she had slightly buck teeth and that her nose was dotted with freckles. “I’ve been waiting for this exhibit to open for months. Are you guys staying in town?”

  “Yes,” said Bess, smiling back at her. “At the Elder Root Inn.” Leave it to Bess to be unfailingly polite, even when I knew she was dying to ask me what was really going on.

  “Oh, me too!” said Riley. “It’s just so exciting to meet other fans.”

  “Nancy’s the fan,” said George, who had come up to stand on my right side. “Not me or Bess.”

  Riley looked between us, clearly confused again, since I had just told her we were all fans of DeSantos’s work. Before I could get our story straight, George continued on.

  “I just don’t understand why anyone would continue to use a film camera when digital exists,” she said. She looked pointedly at what was hanging from Riley’s neck.

  “George!” said Bess, but luckily, Riley only laughed.

  “You’d be surprised how different they are,” she said. “I’d be happy to show you. But of course, DeSantos shot using only film, and his work speaks for itself. Right, Nancy?”

  “Of course,” I said, a little sheepishly.

  “I think his series on Copper Canyon would have been impossible to capture with digital,” said Riley. “And those are probably some of my favorite pieces. What about you? What’s your favorite DeSantos photograph?”

  “Um—uh—well—” I stammered. Riley, Bess, and George were all looking at me, but really, I couldn’t have named a single DeSantos photograph if I wanted to.

  Just at that moment, a single, piercing scream turned our attention down the street. As I looked in the direction from which it had come, I saw what seemed to be some kind of commotion in front of a large brick building. A sign on it clearly read THE CARLISLE MUSEUM—the same museum that was hosting the photographs of Christopher DeSanto
s.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Second Victim

  I LOOKED QUICKLY AT BESS and George before we all took off, jogging down the street and in the direction of whoever had screamed. We made it to the museum before I realized that Riley had tagged along as well.

  We weren’t the only ones to hear the scream and wonder what was happening. A few people who appeared as though they had been walking past the museum had stopped to check on the sudden sound. There was also a park nearby, and I could see a few people lifting up the hoods of their raincoats or readjusting their umbrellas so they could see what was happening as they walked through.

  There were two women standing on the museum’s front steps. One of them looked as though she was maybe a year or two older than me. She had light brown hair that was parted in the middle and hung straight down. Her hand was covering her mouth, and she was crying. It must have been she who had screamed. I watched as she began gesturing at anyone who was nearby.

  “You have to listen to me!” she kept calling out. “Please, I need help!”

  The second woman on the museum steps looked as though she was trying to calm the girl down, or at least move her back inside. This woman was thin, with short white hair and hunched shoulders. She was wearing a navy-blue blazer, and pinned to it was a name tag. I had to assume she worked for the museum.

  Nearly everyone who had been in listening distance made their way over, and soon the two women were surrounded by a small crowd of people. The girl started motioning back through the open door of the museum, though it wasn’t immediately clear why. I left Bess, George, and Riley behind and edged my way to the front of the crowd.

  “Come here, dear,” the older woman said. “Let’s move over this way.”

  The crying girl wouldn’t budge, and more people were gathering around her.

  “What’s happening?” someone from the crowd asked her.

  This question had clearly been what the girl was waiting for. She began speaking loudly, addressing the crowd. “My boyfriend,” she began. “He’s missing. He’s trapped in there.”

  “Trapped in the museum?” said someone else. “What do you mean?”

  If the girl had been nearly hysterical before, now she seemed to be determined and almost calm. “We were visiting the museum last night,” she said. “My boyfriend and I. But then he just disappeared. I thought that maybe he was just going to meet me back at our hotel or something. But he never showed. So I came back to the museum this morning, to look for him, and I found him. It’s the same thing that happened to that other girl, last week. They’re both trapped inside the exhibit, inside the photographs!”

  There was a mix of different reactions throughout the crowd. One woman laughed, clearly thinking this was a joke. Some gasped, while others just looked confused. But the woman who worked at the museum didn’t look surprised at all. Instead she looked worried.

  The crying girl continued. “It’s the curse!” she said, this time looking around at everyone gathered in the crowd. “Terry Lawrence cursed these photographs, and they’re going to keep taking people until the exhibit is shut down.”

  The museum worker stepped forward, waving her hands in front of herself as if she were trying to quiet the girl down. “No, no,” she said. Her voice sounded a bit wheezy and strained. “We aren’t shutting down and there is no curse. Absolutely no such thing as a curse. Someone is just tampering with my exhibit.”

  The crying girl looked as though she was about to respond to this when a police officer began making his way through the crowd. He was a short man, with heavy cheeks and a rounded nose. “What’s going on here?” he called out to the two women.

  “Officer!” said the crying girl. “You have to help me. My boyfriend’s missing. He’s trapped inside a DeSantos photograph. This exhibit is cursed and needs to be shut down immediately!”

  I watched the officer closely, wondering how he would react. I expected that he might look confused or unsure, but to my surprise he rolled his eyes and only appeared to be slightly bored.

  “Susan,” he said, turning toward the woman who worked for the museum. “We’ve already told you. You have to put a stop to this little stunt of yours. You can’t fake a curse in order to get more publicity. It’s fraud.”

  The museum worker, Susan, began shaking her head rapidly. “I have nothing to do with the missing people,” she said. “I wouldn’t be involved in something like that.”

  “This is real,” insisted the crying girl. “And so is the curse.”

  Now the police officer did look unsure. He glanced between the women as if one of them might break and admit they were lying. Neither of them said anything, though, so the police officer suggested, “How about we get both of your statements, all right? Down at the police station.”

  Both women nodded and allowed themselves to be shepherded off to the side of the building and, eventually, into the police car parked nearby.

  The officer then returned to where the crowd was still gathered and asked everyone to head home, or at least to clear away from the steps. As people began to move, I felt myself being jostled by the crowd. A few people bumped into my shoulders. I knew Bess and George were back behind me, but instead of heading toward them, I slipped through everyone else into the museum.

  Unlike the outside of the museum, with its weathered red brick, the inside of the museum was painted a clean white. It was also empty. No museum staff were there to stop me as I followed signs to the room with the DeSantos exhibit, just off the main lobby. There were sharp spotlights everywhere in the exhibit space, and most were directed at the photographs on the wall. The seating was minimal, just a few plain benches spread out around the room.

  It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. The screaming woman had been correct: there was something very out of place in one of the photographs. It was one of an older-looking Shady Oaks, and the little card below it said it had been taken in 1945. The strange part was in the background, because there was also a man wearing a hoodie and jeans, clearly modern-day clothing. He was walking through a group of people wearing 1940s clothing. His head was turned so he was looking back over his shoulder. He was frozen midstep. He must be the crying woman’s boyfriend.

  I was looking at the photograph so intently that I didn’t even hear Bess and George come up behind me.

  “Nancy?” said Bess, from over my shoulder. “I think you have some explaining to do.”

  * * *

  The museum quickly filled up with other people from the crowd wanting to see the impossible photographs. I knew it wasn’t going to be a good place to talk, so I told Bess and George we should go back to our original plan. We would find a place to eat breakfast, and I would tell them everything.

  On our way out, I also spotted Riley and invited her along. Bess and George both gave me a strange look, probably wondering why I would want to talk about any of this in front of someone we had just met. I needed information, though, and I was willing to bet Riley could tell me a lot about Christopher DeSantos.

  We found a diner just a little ways downtown. The rain had let up, but the diner’s windows were still all fogged. Inside the building, the foggy windows and the wood paneling and the smell of pancakes made everything feel cozy and warm. We all happily shed our rain gear. Riley and I were sitting on one side of a vinyl booth, while Bess and George sat on the other. By the time we had all ordered and had our hands wrapped around mugs of hot chocolate, Bess and George were ready to ask some questions.

  “All right, Nancy,” said Bess. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not really a Christopher DeSantos fan,” I said, hunching my shoulders. I felt guilty about having lied to my friends, even if I had a good reason.

  “That much is obvious,” said George, blowing away the steam rising from her mug.

  “But we hadn’t found a good mystery in forever!” I explained. “And then someone sent me this.”

  I pulled a folded piece of paper from my back pocket.
It was a newspaper clipping, now heavily creased and slightly wrinkled. The headline read, IMAGE OF MISSING GIRL APPEARS AT DESANTOS EXHIBIT. And printed in black and white was a grainy photograph of the Carlisle Museum.

  “One of the museum employees, a girl named Grace Rogers, disappeared a week ago,” I said. “But the image of her did appear in one of the DeSantos photographs. Which is impossible, since all the photographs in the exhibit are from the 1940s. The article says that the photographs are supposedly cursed, and that every person who has tried to display a DeSantos photograph has had something terrible happen to them.”

  “And no one has tried to shut down the exhibit?” asked Bess. “What about the police?”

  I shook my head. “According to the article, the police here have already debunked the curse once. The curator at the Carlisle Museum, who I’m guessing is the white-haired woman we just saw, tried to fake the curse when the exhibit was first announced. She claimed one of the photographs had disappeared, when really she’d just hidden it away. Even after Grace vanished, the police still maintained that Susan was behind it. The article says that they’re giving her until Friday to admit that she and her employee, the missing girl, planned this entire thing. That’s three days from now. If they don’t come forward, the police are going to close the museum.” I paused, then added thoughtfully, “And now that there’s a second victim, who knows what the police will do?”

  Bess and George each took a turn scanning the newspaper clipping.

  Riley read it through too, seemingly just as curious as we were. “I’ve heard about the curse before, of course,” she told us. “But I hadn’t heard about the earlier disappearance. Who sent you this article?”

  “I have no idea, but I think they want me to figure out whatever is going on here before the museum closes,” I said. “It was just too good of a mystery to resist.”

  Eventually Bess said, “It is very interesting. But I wish you’d just been honest with us.”

  “I agree,” said George. “Anyway, this makes way more sense than your sudden interest in photography.”